The room at the top of the ancient, rickety stairs is dark, hot, and close, the air redolent of things that make the skin crawl and the hair stand on end. This is not a place one enters with good and honest intentions and its tenant is spoken of only in fearful whispers. They are both avoided by all but the desperate and the desperately greedy.
The splintered door creaks as it opens, but only a little, and light from the alleyway briefly skitters over the dusty threshold. It illuminates nothing, as if too horrified by what lies within to reveal it.
“I’ve become rather popular all of a sudden.”
The voice is as aged as the blackened wood of the door, and quiet as the brush of a cobweb in the dark.
“You have a reputation, Old Mother.”
“Of course I do. What do you wish of me?”
“Knowledge. And power of course. The usual things people seek of you, I suppose.” There is a touch of bored contempt in the speaker’s voice, though not enough to completely hide the underlying wariness.
“I don’t work for free.”
“No one does.”
“Then you’ve brought payment?”
“Of course.” A bag rustles and several metallic objects clink against one another as they scatter across a tabletop. There is a short silence before the old crone begins to wheeze in laughter.
“You’re in over your head, child. What need have I of coin at my age?”
Another bag drops amidst the coins, but this one falls with barely a sound. Bent and knobby fingers pull the drawstring and there is a sigh of satisfaction.
“Not the best quality, but it’ll do. State your purpose.”
“I seek the Guardian, Old Mother. I have a request, and you will tell me how to summon Him.”
A short bark of disbelief cuts the air. “You would send for a Consort as if he were a mortal page, to do your bidding? Ignorant fool!”
“Keep your opinions to yourself, crone. I’ve paid you for your services, not your judgment. Now tell me what I want to know!”
“Fine,” she said sullenly, “but your fate be on your own head. Only the stupid shun the advice of the old ones. For what reason do you summon Him?”
“Does it matter?”
“Oh yes, it matters. Your purpose determines which incantation you are to use, and what preparations you must make. Have you a copy of The Book?”
“Which book? I have many.”
“You truly are an ignorant, but it’s no concern of mine. The Seventh Door is needed for your task. The ritual you seek is contained within.”
“I haven’t the time nor the inclination to travel all the way to Turris Arcana for a copy. Try again.”
“But you needn’t. There’s a copy hidden away in the Imperial Library, if you can get it. Be wary, though, for the priests guard it well and I hear tell there are two new mages in the palace. One of them the High Mage himself.”
“Noted. What else?”
“Listen carefully. You risk your soul in this and it’ll be no one’s fault but your own if you make a mistake...”
Enari sat bolt upright in her bedroll, cold sweat trickling down her face and a cry of warning lodged in her throat. The night beyond her tent was still, save for the occasional pop of a log in the campfire and the shift of a man in his blankets. Her eyes darted back and forth, searching the shadows for any hint of the crone or the Other, but she was alone.
Lying back down, she closed her eyes and tried to banish the images, but it was no use. Sleep did not come for her again that night and it was with a troubled heart that she finally rose at dawn.